Evening Meditation

Our apple tree is exuberant tonight,

its white blossoms flare within emerald shades

of our big cottonwoods,

and the flashing red finch descends

busy among the bursting white flames,

when suddenly, by a small boy enraptured,

it poses as the guardian halcyon.

Love in April is like this,

measured in flashes

of red wings in trees

and scored in lines of

molten sunlight, pouring

through our knotty fence

into the silky darkness

of our star-drenched night

(4/5/2010)

Winter Tree

Photo Brian Federle: Desert Tree, Palm Springs, 2016

The winter tree 

does not move.

Its wide trunk 

plunges into graven earth, 

unseen roots, grasping hands

feel deeply the living soil,

hold firm anchorage

against the coming storm,

but rising wood, thin

though strong enough 

to paint slender lines, 

trails into purer air, 

gives shelter

to Christmas birds.

They hunch on stems, quietly

waiting to sing open 

the dawn.

(12/23/2011)

Memorial

Summer

He worked nights, leaving as we climbed
the tall narrow staircase to our shared room,
up into the summer heat, the steel fan
in the hallway window
pulling cool, leafy breezes
from our waving trees.

We heard the kitchen screen-door
slap shut, the Pontiac roaring to life,
and watched as slowly he backed down
the dark driveway, and was gone.

And gladly we glided through our misty dreams,
flying over tree-tops, baseball games
and cool swimming pools,

when finally the robin’s enthusiasm
and the fresh morning sun
flashing through green leaves
woke us as we heard the car stop
and Dad call cheerfully, “I’m home!”

The air already scented with bacon and coffee,
we flew down the groaning stairs,
two steps at a bound,
and eagerly started another golden
summer’s day.


Winter

One winter day I did something wrong, and
he got angry and drew his worn leather belt
from the loops of his grey, stained work trousers
To teach me a lesson.

Terrified, I ran upstairs to the big closet
and trembled behind coats and sweaters,
as heavily he came up the steps,
righteous anger ringing in his voice,
tears flowing down my cheeks;

when my big brother, teenage and strong,
called defiance to him and drew him down
into the back yard to fight him
and save me, angered by his
memory of so many other beatings,
determined to stop it now!


But facing his own father
he could not fight back, and
weeping, I watched my dad
pummel my brother’s defenseless face,
far worse than any beating
I would have gotten.

From kitchen window,
I screamed to them both
to stop!

That was when my father saw,
in the kitchen window’s glare
his own father’s angry eyes,
and felt his father’s fists
landing hard on his own face,
and he stopped and
embraced my brother.

Spring

Seven years after my father died
my first child, my son, was born in spring,
and in the gleaming, sterile room
I first held him in my arms
as, with his impossibly wide, blue eyes
he calmly gazed right into my raw soul,
and I felt in a sudden rush of warmth,
a timeless love
and at last discovered
the reason for my life.

It was then
I understood my father.

In my son’s face I saw my own
and felt my father’s eyes gazing
in warm wonder on me
as I glowed with
unconditional love for my son.


(30 Jan 2011/ 2017)

Photo: Steven Federle holding Brian Federle, March 1986

Aubade: Mourning-dove

Dawn fires

the cold roses

one-

at-

a-time, 

when, with

planetary urge,

all explode to

vermillion

conflagration.

Then the cherry tree,

plain in

drab leaf,

erupts into

emerald

glory,

and high

from the bright rooftop

the mourning-dove

sings

his low, plaintive

song of 

love.

(15 June 2014)

The Sadness of Holy Saturday

Through the moonless night

clouds choke receding light

and the world descends

into darkness.

Where are you

as winter's chill pierces my hands? 

Oh, where have you gone? 

Do you not care that I decay

without your gentle breath,

that without your light 

I wane like the failing sun?

Why have you abandoned me?

Through my tears I see 

two millennia of agony, 

the six million slain,

all the fallen generations

newly free, heavy nails 

at last released. 

The Rejection of Jesus (Palm Sunday)

Jesus the Homeless, bronze sculpture by Timothy Schmalz

Regis College, the University of Toronto.

“I hear the whisperings of many: “Terror on every side! Denounce! let us denounce him!” 

Jeremiah 20:10

Why do you not believe me?

Have I not wept

as, lost and empty

you cried out in the night?

I shed bitter tears

when at last you fell

and did not arise.

I’ll breath my anguish

and fire your still heart

with my passion.

What more can I do for you

than die?

(27 March 2015)

A Father's Lament

Photo Brian Federle, Hawaii, 2016

Spring fills this dry land

With life, yet

I cannot see your face

or embrace you with a father’s love

as I did when last you filled our lives

with your easy laughter

and beautiful eyes.

Shall I speak to you, tell  how

small birds gather

in the budding apple tree

hungry no more,

filled with joy?

I cry out to you

and the startled birds

fall into silence,

Let me tell you, then,

Of my new life without you.

Deep in my side I feel endless pain

where my heart once beat;

now I merely breathe

emptiness.

My son, oh, where have you gone?

Call to me from the brilliant heights,

for deep in darkness I lie

crying to see you just

one more

time.

(for Brian Federle, 3/4/86 - 3/25/17)

To My Wife in Mourning

bright day,still birds, black
spots on the blue sky, slightly
sway in trees, and wait

for winter to stay
or summer at last to come
like we’re waiting for

the pain to stop, death
to give way to the winter
sun’s soft, warm embrace.

(for our son, Brian, 3/4/1986 - 3/25/2017)

Kentucky

Image: Fancy Farm, Kentucky

Summer steam

washes us clean

like a warm bath

as we wade through young fields, 

new corn waist high 

to where blue sky 

meets the rustling green sea.

We navigate by dead-

reckoning to the red barn. 

Wary of snakes, 

with flailing stick you flush 

out the tall, quick hares.

Feathers flashing, quail

burst heavenward at 

our clumsy approach, 

but in the dark barn 

we find 

forgiveness.

God's own light streams down 

into fragrant stalls

as wise eyes

regard us.

We reach out to touch.

They nod, 

first in warning,

then with bright approval.

(6 Feb 2012)

Suisun Spring

Photo: Brian Federle, "Camping" 3-25-2008


the green glow
of our cottonwoods
newly clothed in the gentle April sun ....

our apple tree,
still skeletal,
intimating cotton buds
promising green glory to come,

and the grass!
all winter-yellow evaporated,
shouting like a
third-grade leprechaun
skipping across the playground
in the school's St. Patrick's Day Parade.

but most unforeseen,
along the rough fence
the vinca
blazing with royal light
in the deep, verdant shade
of our cottonwoods.

(12 April 2010)

Abscissa of the Soul

Photo by Brian Federle: Seagull, New Brighton Beach, 2009.

“Once we enter again into contact with our own deepest self, with an ordinate self-love that is inseparable from the love of God and of His truth, we discover that all good develops from within us, growing up from the hidden depths of our being according to the concrete and existential norms laid down by the Spirit Who is given us from God. “
Thomas Merton, The New Man  

Go beyond 

the surface 

of things, 

deeper 

than thin soil 

fecund 

in the rain, 

but dried to dust

by the summer wind.

Dive head first 

into the darkness;

have faith 

that someone

will catch you, 

that you will

splash into 

a warm sea, 

that a strong hand 

will reach out

and save 

your life.

If you wait 

for proof

you will find only

a solid stone 

at your core.

Death 

is like that... 

facts dash 

your brains, 

bring you 

to the edge

of nothing.

But faith 

will lift you 

beyond 

your limitations, 

will bear you up 

on golden wings,

make of you 

the Royal Ordinate 

of time and space

and you will dance 

to the music 

of the spheres,

as without fear

you reach out 

to your Beloved,  

the Abscissa 

of the soul.

**********************************

Author’s Note: In mathematics, ordinate refers to that element of an ordered pair which is plotted on the vertical axis of a two-dimensional Cartesian coordinate system, as opposed to the abscissa.  on a graph, the "x" coordinate rises or falls on the vertical line, but never moves forward. Alone, it is doomed to fail, to fall to its eventual death because things that do not move forward always die. But with its abscissa, it has forward movement... purpose... life... and can continue to soar into the ether. I am not good at math but quite good at seeing things.

(25 June 2012)

Sunrise

Photo: Sunrise Orcas Island, 2014.  Brian Federle

"Sunrise is an event that calls forth solemn music in the very depths of man's nature, as if one's whole being has to attune itself to the cosmos and praise God for the new day, praise Him in the name of all the creatures that ever were or ever will be."  Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander

Oh call me softly

in the morning!

With winter's sun

paint golden

the pale trees.

In deep waters,

in cool ponds brush my 

legs, caress

my tender feet.

Your breath flies

through the green 
canyons.

With tongues

of flame

oh, ravish me!

(11 March 2013)

He Does Not Need Your Sacrifice

"He does not need our sacrifices, 

He asks for our selves."  

Thomas Merton, No Man is an Island

Your sacrifice is like

the breath

of the sparrow

in the roiling storm.

It is not needed

but pleasing in its

simplicity. 

When you peel away

your small, feathered

soul, when

you stretch your thin

lungs to sing

your hymn of self-

immolation,

remember that

it is not necessary,

no, not at all, 

but still pleasing is

the purity of

your song.

(25 Feb 2012)

Bridge at Montezuma Slough

We drive to see

where the twisted road will lead.

Salty river, winding slough,

dark water

rising to frothy cap

slapping concrete pier,

moon driven waves race

back to beckoning bay.

Finally we must decide...

cross the low bridge

or turn back,

but the flood is so close to the deck!

We feel tidal vibration,

basso profondo,

rattling sub-sonic

in our ears

as together

we face our fear,

and slowly cross,

eyes always ahead

til again we feel sure earth

solid beneath our tread.

(2013  - 2018)

Camping at Lake Berryessa

My children sleep
on the thin vinyl floor
while above our tent,
just past the dark tree-line,
the Milky Way glimmers
like cool waves breaking
on the black coast
of the deep mountain sky.

All night
the lake whispers softly
under gentle western winds
as egret and owl
keep guardian eyes
on the sleeping
human shore.

While watching my sons sleep,
I hear the low murmur
of wild turkey and possum
scuffling through dry dust and leaves,
searching our campground for leftovers
peanut butter crusts, hot dogs and beans,
any careless, easy meal,

when I feel rolling pressure
pushing insistently at base of our tent,
and, alarmed, hear quick, powerful,
exploratory snorts.

Holding my breath,
I gaze into the deer’s
questioning,
fearless eyes,

and wonder
if we campers
are part of this
ancient community,

or welcomed,
honored guests,

or simply curious,
rude intruders.

(30 Jan. 2011)

Disasters of War

Iron soldiers,

astride their power,

grip swords

stand poised

wait for the order

to stain red

the innocent earth

as women,

naked bellies swollen,

watch flashing steel

steal away their children,

those

who play

at their bare feet

and those

who yet swim

in warmer pools.

Moss Landing

Framed in darkness

Like birds in deep silence

The sky and sea breathe

In steel blue longing

Remembering the dying sun

And the cries of gulls diving.

On insubstantial sand

We watch an impossible ship

Moving and not moving

Like a silent cloud 
at the edge of the world.

I can see no men aboard

Although I know they are there. 

I know they are in steel rooms,

Warmed by twisting turbines,

Softly cursing,

Listening to the night.

The sand moves under us

As we walk to the sea.

Our steps change forever the earth.

The sea changes forever,

We change the sky with our breath

And wind-blown sand covers our feet.

Yet we move,

And for a while we walk

Away from the sea.

The sea will change.

The sky will change.

They will wait.

There’s no hurry.

In memoriam: Arthur Federle, 1978, Brian Federle, 2017

(1979. 2017)